


Double the Layers, Triple the Heat

by WillowGrove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Fantasizing, John's sheer cardigan, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining Sherlock, Straining Buttons, anal sex (imagined), button down shirts, cardigans as lingerie, double layers, double shirt kink, ogling your flatmate, shirt cuffs and collars, shirts and vests, shirtsleeves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowGrove/pseuds/WillowGrove
Summary: Sherlock seems to be having trouble breathing, but his gaze smooths lovingly over the folds of John’s shirtsleeve, probably calculating the exact point of tension in the fabrics or figuring out the exact measurements of the sleeves or whatever it is genius detectives with complicated kinks contemplate while looking at the object of their... study.This is a hopefully growing collection of short snippets (not in chronological order) from the universe, where Sherlock has a kink for seeing his partner in double layers of clothing and John, bless his heart, is happy to oblige.





	1. First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is the ficlet that created this universe. Everything is based on this epic [Tumblr post](https://willowgrovecreates.tumblr.com/post/154825632127/missmuffin221-simpleanddestructivechemistry).

That morning John feels a little bit nervous and a little bit ridiculous as he descends the stairs and steps into the kitchen. He gives just a quick glance at Sherlock, just to check, and of course the mad bastard has noticed. The mad bastard has gone completely still and his breathing has become curiously even all of a sudden.

As he reaches to grab the coffee from the middle shelf, John can feel his confidence growing. The double cuffs do move a little weird around his wrists, but then he can hear Sherlock fidgeting in his chair. Any second now...

“John...”

“Good morning, Sherlock!”

The thing now is to act cool. Like nothing’s happened. Let Sherlock come to him for once. He’s done the first move already, he’s not about to turn around like a nervous schoolboy and watch his flatmate approach, he’s not.

Sherlock is already standing behind him though. 

John is suddenly very aware of his skin underneath the double layers and as he mechanically follows his morning routine of coffee making, he thinks the entire apartment is echoing from the rustle of his shirts.

Sherlock swallows audibly, and John thinks he can feel his entire body vibrating behind him. There is no actual movement though. Just another breath.

“John...”

He has to turn to look now, just a glance, and he cannot hide the tiniest of smiles forming on the corner of his mouth.

As a contrast Sherlock’s look is deadly serious. And fixed entirely on John’s left sleeve, where the lighter fabric of the plaid cuff peaks underneath the darker cuff. John has to swallow himself now, because whatever he expected to happen was certainly not on this level of intensity.

“You...”

Sherlock seems to be having trouble articulating, but his gaze smooths lovingly over the folds of John’s shirtsleeve, probably calculating the exact point of tension in the fabrics or figuring out the exact measurements of the sleeves or whatever it is genius detectives with complicated kinks contemplate while looking at the object of their... study.

“You... listened to what I said last night... at the crime scene.”

Well, that was not what John had expected, but then it was as well, because when did he ever expect the expected from his friend?

“Sherlock, I always listen to what you say.”

“Yes, but... you understood?”

There is a hesitant question in the last word, and John feels a little offended now.

“I know you think I’m an idiot, Sherlock, but there’s not many ways one can interpret _I was not nervous, John, I was aroused_.”

“No, but I wasn’t sure if you _understood_ understood...”

“Well, I did get it right, didn’t I?”

John feels a slight hesitation creeping into his voice, but the answering, “Yes”, is just a quick swallowed breath as John lifts both his cuffs up as if for an inspection.

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter and he sways a bit, but his gaze is steady and he breathes like it’s a herculean task that he’s proud to complete. His hands are almost steady as he slowly lifts them up.

His fingers hover for a while over John’s wrists and then descend lightly onto the fabric. His touch is so gentle, John can nearly feel it, but fuck how much more sensitive he is for it now. Sherlock simply smooths the fabric of the top most shirt with his fingertips. His hands are trembling slightly now.

John for his part is completely mesmerized by Sherlock's concentration. He remains silent and waits patiently, but at the same time he is desperate to see what Sherlock will do next. Will he touch the shirt underneath as well? Will he roll the cuffs? How is this affecting him, what is so incredibly fascinating about this?

Because it clearly is. A deep flush has crept on Sherlock’s cheeks and he has forgotten all about his steady breathing, it seems it was forced earlier after all. He is biting his lower lip slightly, and, glancing down, John thinks he can see a slight bulge forming in the front of Sherlock’s trousers.

Oh god, Sherlock is becoming hard from the simple act of touching his sleeve. He, John, has made Sherlock hard by pulling on two shirts that morning and now they are standing in their kitchen surrounded by this magical tension and John is suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the situation.

He has wanted this for so long. Had he known this would happen, he would have clad in five shirts the fist day they met. But never mind that now, they are here today and Sherlock is now following along the seam of the uppermost cuff, over the round edge of the cuff and up the gauntlet, over the opened buttons and up into the slit. His fingers are so close to the plaid shirt now, toying with the closeness and yet not touching. The heady intimacy of touching the opened buttons of the sleeve is palpable even to John. As Sherlock reaches the v of the slit his finger finally brushes lightly against the plaid shirt underneath and they both shudder.

Sherlock’s eyes flash up and are glued into John’s in a heartbeat. His eyes are impossibly wide and desperate and lost and searching for something, but apparently he finds whatever it is because the next moment Sherlock’s own whispered, “John”, is drowned underneath his own bruising kiss.

As they emerge minutes later, they lean their foreheads together, their groins are pressed hard against each other and Sherlock is fingering the double collars of John’s shirts, his other hand grabbing a fist full of the shirts around John’s waist, keeping John close.

“Bedroom”, Sherlock whispers and John can only nod.

“Don’t take your shirts off.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”


	2. John's Sheer Cardigan – You Know the One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one originated on Tumblr as well, as a reaction to [this teasing photo of John's cardigan](https://willowgrovecreates.tumblr.com/post/156459716327/that-cardigan-is-like-johns-lingerie-isnt-it).
> 
> This happens a little before the "First Time" in the timeline.

"Pass me that book, will you, John." 

Because Sherlock can’t stop staring at that little peek of pale skin. They are sitting opposite each other, in their chairs, and John reaching for things slightly behind him makes the gap between those two buttons of his shirt open just so. 

John is getting a little frustrated with the frequent requests, but he hasn’t caught on yet. Anyway, if John becomes all flustered, then so much the better. All in all this feels like a winner strategy.

Sherlock loves this particular shirt, the plaid so simple and understated and yet somehow... firm. So John. He loves how the fabric looks all soft and fluffy and terribly crisp at the same time. How often he’s imagined letting his fingers brush over that neatly folded collar and then, trembling, smooth down to feel the heat of John’s skin just under that wide expanse of plaid over his beautiful chest. 

But he doesn't get to touch John. They are friends, yes, but not like that.

Sherlock sits up a little straighter at John's confused, "Sherlock?" He decides against answering though, because, really, at this particular moment, he is not so sure of his voice. John is now making himself more comfortable in his chair, and, yes, Sherlock very much wants John to remain, so it is much better to remain silent. John likes his peace and quiet.

John frowns a little, and Sherlock imagines kissing the slight crease between his eyebrows and the corner of his frowning mouth and then promptly has to swallow because getting hard in front of John is never a safe option. 

On the other hand, when has he gone for the safe option, ever? 

He settles a bit deeper into his own chair, lifts his legs up to conceal his groin and surreptitiously glances down to make sure his dressing gown is strategically draped. 

There is a cup of tea beside John, so Sherlock has at least a while to indulge. Thankfully John is holding a book this time, not a newspaper. Sherlock can count the frustrating mornings of trying to glimpse anything of John's gorgeous torso with the length and width of the infuriating Independent, or whatever it was that John read, in the way. Talking about teasing. John is a practical master. Not that he knows anything about it. 

John is leaning back though now, his legs splayed open and his arms relaxed on the chair arms, one holding the book he is reading, his gaze angled a bit to the side. 

It is a veritable feast. 

Everything is visible. John's collar still as neat and tidy as ever, a shadowy glimpse of his unique throat behind it, his broad shoulders relaxed, the cardigan draped over them, swooping down low and giving a generous view of his shirt covered chest. All the shirt buttons are unfortunately relaxed now but that does not matter, because for some reason the cardigan has stretched a bit as John has sat down, the top button straining just a little, the décolletage tight against John's pectorals. Dear God! Every time John breathes in, Sherlock can see how it tightens a little, he can almost feel the fibres of the fabric stretching, embracing the contours of John's chest. 

Sherlock takes a long while just staring at that chest rising and falling, the first button of the cardigan neatly snuggled in the middle. That cardigan is certainly one of the most erotic things John owns. It is all proper and neat, but so thin that it's actually transparent. Especially with a shirt like this, with clearly contrasting colour values. Everything shows.

Sherlock lets his eyes wander all around John's midriff, exploring every crease and fold of his plaid shirt under the sheer brown of the cardigan. In some places the cardigan follows the same wrinkles, the fabrics undulating together side by side, in other places it's stretched over them, hiding a delectable vision of shadows and hills just underneath. Wherever the fabric is pushing tight against the brown of the cardigan, the colours are shining clearly through, in other places the shadows remain dark and inviting.

None of it is stationary of course. John's even breaths let the fabrics move gently and evenly. Sometimes John moves a little, tiny adjustments to his posture. Sometimes he takes a larger breath. Mostly the general arrangement of the clothing stays the same, but those brief moments make the game. 

Just the though of John's chest and belly rising and falling underneath those layers, how his skin touches the underside of that shirt, where it is tight and where it is loose, where it is soft and where the wrinkles tickle his skin... yes, just that thought alone makes a swirl of helpless arousal blossom in Sherlock's belly. 

Those clothes really leave nothing to be imagined, or rather, they make it all so potent inside Sherlock's imagination, that it feels quite palpable.

How can one man be so incredibly tantalising?

Sherlock imagines slowly opening the buttons of the plaid shirt, not yet touching John, but pushing the fabric aside so that he can look. John's skin is smooth and milky white. Somehow in his fantasy it is easy to open the buttons underneath the cardigan too, letting the shirt fall open all the way underneath, and watch John's belly rise and fall just under that sheer cardigan, his skin against it, his whole midriff visible but yet covered. 

Sherlock's fingers twitch as he reaches in his daydream to finally touch the cardigan, somehow different now as it rests against naked skin. It is not a bedroom garment at all, but it sure looks like one in his imagination. John all pale and a little shy underneath. 

Sherlock would let his palms smooth over the fabric, and John would shiver, and Sherlock would reach with his fingers to lightly skim his skin just at the hem of the garment, over his lower belly and his hips, just above his belt. When Sherlock at last would let a few curious fingers underneath the thin fabric of the cardigan, he would be able to see his own hand, first exploring and then, finally, pressing down against John's belly. 

Later John would be lying on his back in Sherlock's bed, all naked except for that cardigan, still all neatly buttoned up, while Sherlock would be plunging deep into him over and over and over. John would be panting and quivering and pleading, and Sherlock would tease his nipples slipping his fingers just under the ribbing, and John's chest and belly would still rise up and fall down underneath that brown sheerness, only all fast and furious now. And, God, how good his skin would look and feel underneath it, just hidden and yet so terribly visible. 

Sherlock is completely hard in his chair now and almost panting for the want of touch, friction, more, anything. Yet he sits still, trying to even his breathing, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. Wondering if his face is already all red from arousal and desperately hoping that John will not be able to smell the moist debauchery in his pants. 

It will be a while yet before John will put his book down and stretch and yawn and finally stand up and wander back to the kitchen to make another cuppa. That will give Sherlock just enough time to carefully stand up and adjust himself and sneak into the bathroom or his own room to silently take care of himself. 

Until then he is stuck, sitting in his chair, legs folded, trying to keep from moaning aloud, his cock hard as a rock and leaking, soaking his pants, he unable to do fuck all about it lest John notice. It is part of the excitement of his little hobby, this torture, never knowing when John will leave, being under his mercy so to speak, even if John himself has no idea of his role in the game. 

He will take a few minutes to calm down, to not spontaneously burst in his chair. Then, once his heartbeat evens out again, he will let his gaze linger over John once more; his legs splayed, his crotch all displayed there, all the myriad creases of his trousers, his belt so invitingly visible, the hem of the cardigan just there to caress the top of the belt. John's breaths just as even and mesmerising as ever. 

And just like that, he will be straining against his pants again, making himself go almost wild before once more letting himself close his eyes for a few moments and breathe. He wonders what might happen if he one day took it one step too far and actually orgasmed right there in his chair, in plain daylight, in front of John, just from looking at the folds of his shirt?

Could he do it in a way that John would remain clueless? Probably not. 

Sometimes he wonders if it really is possible that John does not know full well already. Even right now.


	3. In a Pinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the first time. Sherlock ruminates on deducing John's garments.

Of course John does not always wear enough layers. 

In a pinch Sherlock has to deduce, whether John is wearing a vest under his shirt or not, and be satisfied with that. Naturally he can do it, it's simple enough. Sometimes even a hint of white is shining through the topmost layer. Because of course Sherlock has catalogued each and every one of John's clothes and therefore knows, that most of his vests are basic white; simple, uncomplicated, reliable quality. 

Just the thought of them makes Sherlock anxious and pliable at the same time.

With the right lighting and a thin enough shirt, the whole shape of the vest underneath can be almost appreciated. Sometimes Sherlock makes John change place to a particular chair for optimal light – some restaurants and cafés really are much too dim. John rarely seems to notice, though, and if he does, he just assumes it's to do with whatever case they are currently working on. 

If the lighting fails or if the shirt on top is just too thick, there's still the possibility of glimpsing the contours of the vest. The absolute best option to achieve this, is to make John pick something up from the floor or behind the sofa so, that he has to bend his upper back. When the dress shirt tightens around his shoulders, the curved neckline of his vest is drawn very nicely all along his upper back. Sherlock has to make sure to stand far enough not to be tempted to reach out and follow the inviting line with his finger. 

He's almost done it once or twice.

These tricks are for special occasions, though; lazy Sundays, when Sherlock has enough time to enjoy double and triple checking his deductions. Or boring crime scenes, where there's not enough crime to investigate, and it's warm enough, that John is not wearing a coat or a jumper, but also cold enough, that he has pulled on a vest that morning. 

Most often, though, Sherlock just has to rely on the tiny observations he makes on the movement of John's shirt. He has perfected this skill after all, feeling itchy and snappish all day, if he does not know exactly what layers John is wearing. If Sherlock just has the five or ten minutes observation time, while John is making his coffee and perhaps a bit of toast, Sherlock has to be smart about it. 

There is a certain friction in the movement of a shirt layered with a vest underneath. A shirt directly against the skin is more free to move about the torso, but a vest underneath makes the shirt pull and cling and wrinkle in a very distinct pattern. 

Noticing this pattern always manifests as a solid satisfaction in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. It makes his skin feel calm, and his lips curve up, and it almost appears as a soft taste in his mouth, although he knows that to be utter rubbish.

The key is to guard like a hawk the moments, when John has to reach for something or twist his body. This is why, for example, their coffee lives in the upper shelf of the cabinet. John has to lift his left hand and while he is standing with his back to Sherlock, Sherlock has enough time to observe in peace. 

If the shirt is free to pull up right away, it means no vest, if the shirt clings in one or two parts for a fraction of a second just before pulling tight, however, then there is certainly a vest underneath.

It can happen, that John's shirt pulls a little bit up from his waistline as he reaches up, particularly when Sherlock has pushed the coffee a little further back in the cupboard. Sometimes John leaves the shirt as it is, causing a little more bunching on his left side. Sherlock loves regarding this patch of fabric throughout the morning, and imagining, that he could somehow live inside that small space he has created at John's side, just above his belt. 

Sometimes John tugs the shirt back; absent-mindedly pushing his thumb underneath the trousers, and Sherlock has to hold his breath and will his heart to slow down. The shirt fabric gets pushed a little bit down and under, and as this causes John's trousers to ride a little lower, it is always followed by a little upwards tug of his belt and trouser waistline. This push, tug and lift happens in just a few seconds, by automation from John's part, but for Sherlock it feels like an entire seduction.

Sometimes, in his own room, Sherlock imagines reasons enough for John to adjust his clothing.

Of course – coming back to the morning deductions – depending on the shirt and what John is doing, there might occur the ultimate opportunity of glimpsing something from between the buttons. Sherlock often wishes John might prefer tighter shirts so that this occurrence might be more commonplace, but, after all, it is probable that John's propensity to wear layers stems from the same need as does his preference for a comfortable loose fit, so all in all, Sherlock is loath to disturb the status quo. 

However unlikely this glimpsing is, Sherlock likes to hang out slightly to the right of John, so that he has a good view between John's buttons. He will take this view gladly any time, a glimpse of John's skin is always tantalizing, but, to be honest, the best chills are the ones he gets when the shallow opening between two buttons reveals the ribbed cotton of a vest underneath. 

There is something wonderfully satisfying in the knowledge, that these two layers will be rubbing against each other close to John's body the whole day. That there are at least two layers of honest fabric to protect John wherever he happens to stumble that day, that his skin is warm and safe, cradled by the warmth of the shirt and hugged by the tightness of the vest. It brings a safe, sanctioned feeling to Sherlock's own chest as well. 

When John closes the door to 221B on his way to work, Sherlock can close his eyes and imagine he travels with John, close to John's heart, in his private knowledge of what John is wearing innermost that day.


End file.
